The Architect of Us

Chapter Three: The Sketch Beneath the Surface

The conference room smelled faintly of citrus—probably Zara’s doing. A wide digital screen at the far end displayed slides of the Jabi Waterfront Development Project: a government-backed plan to revive the underused lakeside with a mix of recreational and residential spaces. Modern architecture, public parks, maybe even a floating amphitheater.

Adanna quietly slid into a chair near the middle of the long glass table, notebook open, pencil in hand. She didn’t dare take the swivel chair at the head, even though it was empty. That one obviously belonged to someone important.

Toba walked in, nodded to a few team members, and—of course—took that chair. He looked around the room, his eyes briefly lingering on Adanna.

“Alright, folks. You’ve all seen the brief. The ministry wants beauty and functionality. But they also want to spend like they’re broke. So—ideas?”

Hands went up. Conversations flowed. Zara suggested an eco-friendly walking trail that doubled as an art space. Someone from civil engineering proposed floating bamboo structures. Another guy pitched a rooftop cafe with solar panels.

Adanna scribbled quietly, absorbing everything. She felt like she was in a live episode of a design podcast—brilliant minds, confident voices, fast-moving ideas.

But her pencil paused when she noticed the same issue she’d seen in the proposal PDF earlier that morning: no consideration for the local community living near the lake—the people who sold fish, who ran small food stalls, who raised children in cramped apartments by the water.

Her voice wavered as she spoke. “Um… sorry, can I just add something?”

All heads turned.

“I noticed there’s no integration for the existing residents—people who have lived and worked around Jabi Lake for decades. If we’re designing a space for the public, shouldn’t we think about how they can be a part of it, not displaced by it?”

There was a moment of silence.

Toba raised an eyebrow.

Then he smiled.

“Finally, someone said it,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Adanna’s right. We can’t build glass castles for tourists and forget the people who sell suya by the lake every evening.”

Zara gave Adanna a low thumbs-up under the table.

As the meeting continued, Adanna relaxed slightly. She’d spoken up. And her point had landed. That alone felt like a personal victory.

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By 6 p.m., her brain felt like jollof rice left on low heat—slightly burnt, slightly perfect.

She rode the bus back to Gwagwalada with her earphones in, Gospel music pouring into her soul like balm. The stress, the imposter syndrome, the lingering worry about whether she belonged here—it all melted when she remembered who she was.

Child of God first. Architect second.

Her mother greeted her with a hug at the door. The scent of ogbono soup drifted through the kitchen like a promise.

“I watched that interview you did for your thesis last year,” Mama said as they ate. “You looked so… sure. You reminded me of your father.”

Adanna smiled. Her father died when she was seven. She barely remembered his face, just that he always smelled like engine oil and peppermints.

“How was work?” Mama asked.

Adanna thought for a moment. Then she grinned. “I didn’t die.”

“That’s a good start,” Mama laughed. “Did you pray before you entered?”

“Yes, ma.”

“Then you’ll be fine.”

Later that night, as she journaled by flashlight—NEPA had done what NEPA does best—Adanna paused mid-sentence.

She found herself sketching a line. Then another. Before long, there was a shape. A concept. A community marketplace tucked beneath a modern boardwalk. Local stalls made from recycled shipping containers. A children’s play area beside it. Solar-powered lanterns. Water access for the fish sellers.

It wasn’t grand. But it was honest.

She didn’t know it yet, but that sketch would soon catch someone’s eye. Someone who had already started watching her with more interest than he let on.

But for now, she just closed her sketchbook, whispered a quiet “Thank You, Lord,” and drifted off to sleep.

Tomorrow was another day to show up—and to keep building.